Victoria Thompson - Murder on St. Mark’s place

When Frank figured he’d proven his point, he laid the rifle down and turned to Mrs. Brandt with a satisfied smile. She was smiling back, well aware of why he had continued to shoot long after he’d won her the glass beads. “What would you like?” he asked, indicating the “vast array of prizes.”

“That fire wagon, I think,” she said, pointing to the toy at the bottom of the display. It was obviously worth only a few cents and totally unsuitable for a lady. “For Brian,” she added at his surprised look.

Of course. She knew his weakness. He wouldn’t be able to refuse her anything now that she did.

With the toy bulging in his pocket, they continued down the midway until they heard the shouts and screams and thundering splash that told them they’d finally reached the place where Gerda Reinhard may have met her killer.

“It’s the Shoot-the-Chutes,” she said unnecessarily. Frank had already recognized the boats from the photograph.

They watched as one of the boats crested the top of the final incline and went shooting down the water-filled trough into the lagoon below. The angle of descent caused the boat to strike the surface of the water with a bone-jarring crash that sent water splashing in all directions. The passengers screamed with either terror or delight, Frank wasn’t certain which, but from the way they were laughing as they climbed out of the boat, they seemed none the worse for their experience.

“That’s the place where they take the photographs,” she said, drawing his attention to a replica of the boats used on the ride. This one was propped up on a wooden stand, and the photographer was assembling a group of people in it for a photograph.

Frank looked back as another boat went crashing down the chute. “I hope you don’t think you have to ride that thing to find out who the killer is,” he said, but when he looked at Mrs. Brandt, ready for her smart reply, she wasn’t even paying attention. Instead she was staring intently at the people posing in the boat.

“What is it?” he asked, looking, too, but seeing nothing noteworthy.

“That man in the third row. I think I know him.”

“ WHICH ONE?”

Sarah looked again. The man was turned away now, speaking to his companion, a young girl who couldn’t seem to stop giggling. Sarah couldn’t be certain, but he looked like one of the Schyler boys. Then he turned to pose for the photographer who had commanded them all to look suitably frightened for the picture, and she was sure.

“Dirk Schyler,” she told Malloy. “His family and mine have known each other forever.”

“Knickerbockers,” Malloy said with disapproval, referring to the nickname for the wealthy old Dutch families who had been the original settlers of New York City.

“Don’t say it like it’s an insult, Malloy,” she chided him. “Some people are proud of being a Knickerbocker family.”

He knew she wasn’t, of course, so he just gave her one of his looks, which she ignored.

They watched as the people in the boat posed, trying to look frightened, and the photographer snapped the picture.

“What do you suppose the son of a Knickerbocker family is doing at Coney Island with a shop girl?” Malloy mused aloud.

Sarah had been wondering the same thing. Dirk was helping the girl out of the boat now, and they could see the cheapness of her outfit and the tawdriness of her accessories. She didn’t appear to be more than sixteen, either. Dirk himself was dressed the part of a Coney Island swain in a plaid suit and a straw boater, which was amazing in itself. Someone of Dirk’s station in life would never be seen in such a costume, or so Sarah would have thought.

All this actually made Sarah doubt her own judgment for a moment, but she waited until the couple was within earshot, and she called, “Dirk!”

Sure enough, his head jerked around in surprise. When he saw Sarah staring back at him, he didn’t seem to recognize her at first. His surprise slid into confusion and then, just for a moment, alarm, as recognition dawned. She hadn’t seen him in years, but they had been children together, sharing the agonies of dancing classes and tea parties. He knew her now and for just that second had been horrified to know she had seen him here, like this.

She understood it all in the second before his expression twisted itself into the semblance of delighted surprise, the kind he would have genuinely felt to have encountered her while dining at Delmonico’s in the city, for example. He leaned down and spoke to his companion, who shot a look in Sarah’s direction, plainly ready to object to his leaving her, even for an instant. But then she saw Sarah and recognized that someone of Sarah’s advanced years could not be a threat to her, and besides, Sarah already had Malloy for an escort. Reluctantly, she released the arm to which she had been clinging possessively and allowed him to make his way over to Sarah and Malloy.

“Sarah, is that you?” he asked, his features now schooled into the proper combination of amazement and pleasure.

“It certainly is. How have you been, Dirk?” she asked, taking the hand he offered.

He clasped hers in both of his, holding it fast while they exchanged pleasantries about the health of their respective families. Sarah thought she was going to have to pull it free by force until she realized she could simply introduce him to her companion instead.

“Are you enjoying the sights?” Dirk was asking politely, plainly expecting her to deny it. His eyes were dancing with the assumption of a shared contempt for the amusements found here.

“Very much,” Sarah said truthfully. “I was just trying to convince Mr. Malloy to take me on the Shoot-the-Chutes.”

“Malloy?” Dirk said with some amazement, as if the name were some foreign language he didn’t quite recognize. His tone told her he was shocked at the idea of her consorting with an Irishman, but at least he released her hand at last to shake hands with Malloy.

“Frank Malloy, Dirk Schyler,” Sarah said, offering Dirk no more information about Malloy, even though his curiosity was obvious.

“Do you come here a lot, Schyler?” Malloy asked him with all the subtlety of a police interrogator.

Dirk was taken aback by his bluntness, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to refuse to answer. That would have been beyond rude, and Dirk had been bred to obey the rules of etiquette as if they held the force of law. “I… now and again,” was all he would admit. “I find it… amusing.”

Malloy glanced meaningfully at the girl, who was waiting with increasing impatience for his return. “Yes, she looks… amusing.”

Sarah wanted to smack him. Certainly, Dirk’s ill-disguised contempt for Malloy was annoying, but insulting him back wouldn’t get them anywhere.

The girl saw them looking at her, and she called, “Will you come on?” to Dirk, who replied with a placating wave, indicating he’d join her in a moment.

“We were just wondering if this ride is dangerous,” Sarah asked, drawing his attention back to her. “I couldn’t get Mr. Malloy to take me on the Flip-Flap Railway. He was afraid we’d fall out.” She smiled sweetly, knowing Malloy would probably like to choke her for saying such a thing.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry, old man,” Dirk assured him generously, plainly delighted to gain an advantage over Malloy. “Everything here is perfectly safe. The Flip-Flap relies on centrifugal force to keep people in their seats. Works just like gravity, don’t you know?”

Malloy didn’t know any such thing, but he wasn’t going to show weakness in front of Dirk. “That’s what I heard,” he lied.

“And the boat ride here”-Dirk gestured toward the Shoot-the-Chutes-“is quite a thrill, but not dangerous at all. And you’ll like the beginning of the ride even better than the ending. It’s a very different kind of thrill, especially with a companion like our lovely Sarah.”